


Collection: Comment Fic/Snippets

by aerye



Category: House M.D., Mona Lisa Smile (2003), Wire in the Blood, due South
Genre: Chapters Not Related, Comment Fic, Early Work, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Snippets, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of comment fic and assorted snippets. Chapters stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospital F/K/V

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he ran down the hospital corridor, trying to keep his eyes on both the signs and the color-coded stripes painted on the formica floor. Yellow—laboratories, red—emergency, green—outpatient clinic.

Blue, intensive care.

He skidded around the corner, almost bumping into a nurse. "Sorry, sorry..."

"Ray!"

Fraser, in a sea of Vecchio faces.

"How is he?" He was in front of Fraser, a hand on his arm. "Is he okay? Is he—?" He couldn't finish the question.

"He's still unconscious. The doctor's with him. Ray, come sit down." Fraser's hand was on his shoulder, his back, leading him away.

"I tried to get here sooner but I had to sign over Carvers, that son of a bitch, and then I must've hit every fucking traffic jam and even with the siren—what did the doctor say? God, there was a so much blood—" He realized some of it was still on him, on his shirt, his arm. The arm he'd put around Vecchio while he'd used his hand to try and staunch the blood. It was crusted on his cuticles, under his nails.

"Shit—" He stood up again—too fast maybe because the hallway seemed to spin for a minute—and he looked around frantically until he saw the sign reading "Mens." He took off in that direction and as he reached the door he heard Fraser call his name again but he didn't stop. He pushed through and made his way to one of the sinks, gripping the edge as he tried to catch his breath, putting his head down. He noticed the blood on his shirt again and grabbed it, yanking it over his head, hearing it rip and the sound of a button hitting the floor someplace. He wadded it up in a ball and tossed it toward the garbage can next to the wall, and turned on the tap, shoving his hands under the water. He scrubbed, hearing Fraser come in, his boots echoing in the empty bathroom.

"Ray."

He kept scrubbing.

"Ray. Ray." Fraser came up behind him, turned off the water and grabbed his hands, held them still. "Ray, stop." His voice dropped. "Please."

And Ray looked up and saw Fraser reflected in the mirror behind him. Pale. His eyes suspiciously wet and his jaw tight, his lips pressed tight together like he was afraid of what might get out if he didn't keep his mouth shut.

"Oh, shit." God, what was he thinking? Fraser loved Vecchio, too. "Frase, shit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, and he turned and put his wet hands on Fraser's face and kissed him, again and again, and then the words started tumbling out of his mouth, low and fast and frantic. He couldn't hold them in. "I can't lose him, Fraser, I can't, _we_ can't." And Fraser trembled under his hands and returned his kisses, holding him close, until Frannie banged on the door and told them her brother was going to be just fine.


	2. Ben (Young Fraser)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For pearl-o.

"Ben!"

He was halfway down the road but he stopped and looked back, squinting against the bright light reflecting off the snow, juggling his pack from one shoulder to another. It was Jake.

He flushed.

"Wait up!" Jake was running. Jake ran well, long legs covering the distance smoothly. He wasn't even out of breath when he stopped. "I'll walk with you."

Ben nodded. He thought maybe he flushed again when Jake smiled.

"You on your way to your grandmother's?" Jake asked. He had pulled a bar of chocolate from his backpack and was making short work of the wrapper. He passed a piece to Ben.

"Yeah." Ben took a healthy bite out of it. He didn't get chocolate very often.

"You think she's going to let you come to the dance?" Jake waved to to O'Brien and Burke, who were going by in their Jeep. Ben didn't like O'Brien very much. He didn't think O'Brien liked him very much either. He shrugged. "Maybe."

"It's being sponsored by the church," Jake said, as if Ben didn't know that. "Maybe that'll make a difference."

"My grandparents aren't much into organized religion," Ben said, finishing off his chocolate. Jake handed him another piece.

"What do they have against the church?" he asked. The ice on the sides of the road was thin, breaking up under their footsteps.

"Orthodoxy." Ben saw Jake's brow wrinkle but the other boy didn't pursue it.

"Well, if they let you, you should ask Janey," Jake said. Ben could see Jake was being careful not to look at him. "She likes you."

He looked down at the tips of his boots. His father's boots, with new soles. "How do you know that?"

"She told me." Jake shrugged. He still wasn't looking at Ben. "She likes your blue eyes."

The chocolate felt sticky in his hand. He put the rest of the piece in his mouth.

"She's a nice girl," Ben said. He didn't really know what else to say. 

"Pretty, too."

Ben was quiet. He actually couldn't quite remember what she looked like.

"You don't think she's pretty?" Jake asked, insistent.

"Sure. She's pretty," he agreed. It seemed like a small enough lie, although he wasn't sure his grandmother would see it that way. Still, sometimes he couldn't figure out where the line fell between lies and not being unnecessarily hurtful, and on this occasion he thought he might go with the lie.

He heard Jake laugh and turned. Jake was smiling. "You could care less."

"That's not—" He was flustered. He didn't actually care much but he was sure he should care. 

"Admit it." Jake had stopped. They had reached the edge of town where the trees closed in on the narrow stretch of road. Jake was still smiling. "Admit it, you could care less."

And he didn't. He really didn't care if Janey liked him.

"Hey, don't go over all moody on me."

Ben frowned. "I'm not moody," he started to say but then Jake made a face and Ben laughed. Laughed with Jake. He looked down at his hand where the chocolate had smeared all over his palm and Jake looked down with him. Jake took his hand and Ben's heart beat faster, and Jake licked the chocolate away.

Ben stopped breathing.

"She's right though." Jake was crowding him now. Backing him off the road, into the trees, where the snow and ice crackled underfoot. "You've got great eyes."

"Yeah?" Ben leaned back against the tree, felt Jake lean into him. Felt cold against his back and heat against his heart.

"Yeah." 

Jake tasted like melted chocolate.


	3. Sick Fraser (F/K)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For reginagiraffe.

Ray doesn't let on but he's worried. Scared. They don't have a thermometer but even he can tell Fraser's got a fever, a really high fever. He's burning up under Ray's hand and Ray pulls the blankets up higher and ruffles Dief's fur where he's lying right up against Fraser, doing his best to help in his own wolf-like way.

Fraser's sleeping, at least. Last night he was up all night, coughing and hacking and bringing up globs of mucus that would have made Ray pretty sick to see, if he wasn't so damn scared shitless already. Fraser can't keep anything down but crackers, and he managed some weak tea, but this morning he's fallen into a light sleep, and Ray's not sure if that's better or worse. The books say it's everything from bronchitis to flu to pneumonia to whooping cough, except Fraser says he was vaccinated against that when he was a kid. The weather's interfering with the radio, but Doc Hammer said he'd try to get out there to look at Fraser sometime later this week, and just to keep him warm and full of fluids.

Ray called him a motherfucker and hung up on him. Fraser'll probably make him apologize, and Ray will, he promises, as long as Fraser lives long enough to make him.

He gets up carefully, his back stiff from sitting next to Fraser all night, and he goes outside and chisels some more ice off the side of the porch, breaks it down into cubes and wraps it up in a towel, and brings it back inside. Fraser stirs when he lays it gently on Fraser's forehead, and one hand reaches out from under the pile of blankets, and finds Ray's. Ray takes it in his and squeezes tight, and looks down at Fraser's face, flushed with heat, eyes feverish, and he finds a smile from someplace deep inside, someplace that will not let this thing, whatever it is, win.


	4. Volger Came to Visit (House)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For wickedwords.

It's still the Who on the player but he turned it down after Vogler made his exit, complete with veiled threats and innuendo, delivered with just the right amount of menace. He'd turned out the lights, too, and swallowed another couple Vicodin, and now everything is the way he likes it, steeped in grey and soft around the edges, the ever present pain a distant, heated throb.

"And still no coat."

Wilson is in the doorway.

"My dog ate it."

"You don't have a dog." Wilson's coat is starched and white. Crisp. Reeking of confidence and reassurance.

House cocks his head a little and squints. "All you need is a big 'S' on your chest."

Wilson laughs, a little weakly because he's confused. He comes all the way into the room and sinks into his chair. The one House thinks of as his chair. "Have you had dinner?"

"Nurse Rice turn you down?"

"I'm not dating--"

"Vogler came to visit." House leans his head back, closes his eyes. "He thought the meeting of the transplant committee was very--how did he put it? Oh, yeah--interesting."

Silence for a beat. A noncommittal noise from Wilson.

"Yeah, that's what I say. Oh, and did I mention? Seems someone found a bottle of Ipecac in my patient's purse." House pursed his lips, "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Seems I've been hoodwinked by my own patient. Very, very bad. Y'know," he rouses himself again, sits up, opens a baleful eye in Wilson's direction, "I don't think Volger likes me very much."

Wilson shrugs. "You have tenure."

"Yes." He picks up his cane where it's tipped against the side of his desk. "Yes, I do. So where are you buying me dinner?"

The lopsided grin. Ridiculous on a man Wilson's age. "I don't think I said anything about buying you dinner."

"Really? Very bad acoustics in here." He wrangles his way into his coat, aware, as always, that Wilson is just itching to help. "I feel like Italian. How about Gratella"

Wilson holds the door. "You know, this thing with Vogler. It'll blow over. I mean, you are a pain in the ass but he'll get used to you. We all do."

"I don't know." He shakes his head mournfully. "He doesn't like me. Imagine that."

"How do you know he doesn't like you?"

"He told me."

They make their way toward the elevators. "He told you." Wilson sounds disbelieving. "He came right out and told you that he didn't like you?"

"Well. Not exactly. There were no gloves or pistols involved, if that's what you're asking. But I told him I knew he didn't like me and I didn't like him, and he didn't disagree. I don't think we'll be exchanging Christmas cards."

"You told him you didn't like him?" Now Wilson's voice is full of what a stupid thing to do and Christ, that's just like you. "You just came out and said you don't like him."

"Not exactly. I said all indications were that I thought I wasn't going like him."

"Greg!"

House waved him away. "I don't like anyone. Why should he be any different?"

Long pained sigh from Wilson. "Yeah, well, at least you have tenure."

"Yes." He pushes the down button on the elevator, not quite looking at Wilson. "I have tenure."

"He can't get rid of you without the full support of the Board, and that's not going to happen," Wilson says, though who he is reassuring is a bit hard to tell.

"Yeah. Yeah, he mentioned something about that." The elevator dinged and the doors opened. House limped on and Wilson followed. "Seems it would easier for him to get rid of a Board member, then to get rid of me." He turns and looks at Wilson. "Funny how that works, isn't it?"

There is another long pause before Wilson answers. "Yeah. Funny." Wilson pushes the button for the lobby and the elevator doors close.


	5. An Invitation to Fraser's Wedding (Ray/Ray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For brooklinegirl.

When he finally tracks Kowalski down he finds him at the garage, working on the Harley. Some dumb ass notion Kowalski got into his head about wanting a motorcycle and the next thing Ray knew there was a beaten up Harley Davidson sitting up on blocks and Kowalski was paying homage evenings and Saturday afternoons.

The invitation's lying on the workbench, dog-eared. Greasy fingerprints on the edge, where Kowalski was trying to be careful but failed.

The invitation was unexpected, granted. "Benton Fraser and Genevieve Tétu de Labsade cordially invite you to celebrate the occasion of their union..." Ray figured Benny for a life of solitary nursing the loss of the One Great Love of his life, not a French wife and kids.

Obviously Kowalski thought the same thing.

"You come here for a reason or you just admiring the view," Kowalski asks from someplace behind the back wheel.

"Admiring the view," Ray says. Let Kowalski stew on that one. He picks up the invitation. "You thinking about going?"

Kowalski looks up. He frowns when he sees what Ray is holding and looks down again. Shrugs.

Ray tosses the invitation back on the counter. Looks around the grungy garage Kowalski's been spending 24/7 in. "It's getting late," he says, keeping his voice neutral with an effort. "You thinking about getting some dinner any time soon?"

Kowalski swears under his breath and jerks his hand back. Ray can see blood on the tip of one finger before Kowalski sucks it away. He shakes his head with his finger in his mouth. "Not hungry," he says when his mouth is free.

Ray holds on. "What about later? You think about coming home tonight?"

Kowalski shrugs again and still doesn't look at him. "I wanna get this done."

Ray closes his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. It wasn't like he ever planned on this thing lasting, after all.

"So I'll see you at work tomorrow?"

Kowalski stops what he's doing. Rubs his hands with a greasy rag. "Actually..." He still won't look at Ray. "Actually, I'm thinking of asking Welsh for some time off—"

Ray turns and slams his hand into the garage door before he really thinks about what he's going to do. The noise makes both of them jump. "Would you just—can't you let it—?"

He stops. Of course Kowalski won't. Of course he can't. Ray turns back and walks quickly to where Kowalski's standing now, up off his chair and looking ready to fight. Ray grabs his arms and jerks him forward, and when he kisses Kowalski it's messy and rough, and Kowalski's mouth is bitter with the taste of grease and blood.


	6. A Visit Up North (F/K/V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For brooklinegirl.

Thankfully, Dief displays some inherent understanding of how difficult this situation remains, at least on some levels, and although he still remarks occasionally (and disparagingly) on the strange sexual hang-ups of humans, he takes himself off on these weekends without being asked.

Fraser bought new sheets for the bed. It's winter, so they're flannel. Green plaid. He's built a fire, and although it feels too warm to him, he knows Ray—Ray Vecchio—will appreciate it. He's also laid in supplies—flour, milk, eggs, salami, and canned tomatoes. Beer.

Lubricant.

The cabin is too warm. Perhaps he made the fire too large, or perhaps it is only the anticipation. His palms are moist. His upper lip.

There is a roar of a motor outside and he edges up to the window, standing just back and to the side, and looks through the shutters just as the snowmobile pulls up. It's them. Ray—Ray Kowalski—dressed inadequately, as always. A heavy leather coat and boots and gloves that Fraser can see from here are too thin. Ray—Ray Vecchio—is wearing...is that the same snowsuit? Perhaps. Ray—Ray Kowalski—pulls off his helmet and his hair is standing on end, blond and grey, and his cheeks are bright red with the cold, and Ray—Ray Vecchio—wraps a hand around the back of his head and pulls him down into a kiss.

Ray—Ray Kowalski—is laughing and he pulls away, and points to the cabin, and Ray—Ray Vecchio—follows his gaze and Fraser steps back another step, trying not to be seen and knowing Ray—Ray Vecchio—knows he's there.

And then Ray—Ray Vecchio—is getting off the snowmobile too and unfastening his hood and they're tramping through the snow (Fraser shoveled earlier but it's been snowing all day) and up to the door.

And now he can hear their voices, Ray—Ray Kowalski—a smile in his voice and Ray—Ray Vecchio—quieter but still happy. And there's knocking and he opens the door and there's a blast of cold air and Ray—both Rays—are saying hello and he's taken in strong arms—Ray and Ray and Ray all around him—and he's kissing and being kissed, and he kicks the door closed behind them.


	7. Tony with an "eye" (Ray Kowalski; background Ray/Stella)

His father was right. College had taught him something. College had taught him that he fucking hated college.

Stella loved college but Stella was at Northwestern and he was stuck at CSU. Which didn't necessarily mean he would have loved Northwestern, just that he would have probably hated it less because Stella was there. But he wasn't there and she wasn't here, and so college sucked.

Which was why he stayed away from it as much as he could, as much as he could get away with, without flunking out or his dad finding out. He would hop the El downtown. Nights he hung out in the bars, in the slam pit, but days he hung out in the park, where he could pick up a game of chess without trying hard, and sometimes a couple of bucks if he wasn't playing a regular.

Toni was one of the regulars. Toni like in Antonia-used-to-be-Antonio. "Toni with an eye" who used to be "Tony with a why", as she introduced herself. Dumb, but it stuck in his head. Toni was a working girl nights but days she hung around the park, just like him, and played chess.

She was a work in progress, she liked to say. She'd had her tits done, and was on the hormones. She was saving for the rest. She liked low cut blouses and short skirts, and if she caught him more than once trying to figure out where she hid her dick, well, she was okay with it. She liked him.

He liked her, too. He liked her hair, long and dark and heavy, and the bright silver earrings she always wore. She wore a lot of pink and orange, and she laughed a lot, especially when she was winning. She wore bright pink lipstick and lots of eyeliner, and she showed him how to put it on. They went shopping together sometimes, and she was the one who talked him into the tight leather pants that drove Stella crazy and convinced her to have sex in the back of her father's car instead of going to the movies.

Sometimes they went dancing, him and Toni, because he loved to dance and Stella studied a lot. They went to all the clubs, and danced just about every way there was to dance, and sometimes after they went dancing they went back to her place, and she'd peel the leather pants off of him and take him to bed. Usually he was little high so he didn't think too much about how it should be weird to lick someone's tits and then suck her cock, and Toni was always generous with the reciprocation thing so in the end, he felt like it probably wasn't that big a deal. One night she spread lube all over his dick and let him fuck her, and that was amazing, her smooth legs over his shoulders and her breasts bouncing every time he shoved inside her, and her dick, not as hard as his because of the hormones but hard enough to feel good, she said.

They found her in an alley one night, beaten, broken. A trick gone bad most likely, said her girlfriend Cherrie, someone who thought they were buying X chromosomes and got angry when they got Y. He cut class to go to her funeral, not that there were many people there, just a few of her friends and her parents, who hadn't known where she—he—was living, until the police called. No leads, everyone said. Could have been anyone. But someone should do something, Cherrie said. The cops should do something but they didn't care, Cherrie said, because of what she was. Someone should do something, just the same.


	8. First Winter (F/K)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For lilac_one.

New snowfall last night, and mornings like this take Ray back to his first winter here, the way he used to wake up every morning to a world that seemed made out of snow. Now it's more expected and doesn't freak him out as much, but after a big storm, when everything is covered in thick layers of ice and snow, he's still reminded of that first winter.

He'd arrived with the last of the leaves falling and the first of the snowfall, making it just in time. Two weeks later the first blizzard came and closed down all the routes south for weeks. All part of the plan he'd made. If Fraser couldn't throw him out, then he'd have time to prove to Fraser he could make it, could live without central heating and cable television, could learn to chop wood and keep the generator going, and cook rabbit and wear snowshoes and go without the sun for twenty hours a day.

Not that Fraser hadn't been happy to see him, although that hadn't been entirely clear at first and Fraser had had to tell him that about fourteen times afterward. Because when Fraser first opened the door and saw him he didn't really say anything. He just stared at Ray and Ray had to remind him to ask Ray in, and Fraser just there anyway and Ray had to take over, coming in and shutting the door behind him.

And then Fraser offered him tea--like he was just stopping by for a cupful of sugar instead of standing in Fraser's living room with two suitcases full of stuff which was all he could fit onto the sled, stuff he figured he needed or couldn't live without until later when they could haul the rest of his boxes up from the town--and started asking him how his trip went and it the weather treated him kindly during his travel.

Until finally Ray had asked, "Fraser, what the fuck is wrong with you?" and noticed that Fraser's hands were trembling as he lifted the mugs down from the shelves over the sink, and then Ray had realized it was going to be okay, and came up behind Fraser and wrapped his arms around him and let his cheek slide against Fraser's, his own rough from his beard, and still cold.

In the months that followed, Fraser had taught Ray how to dress properly for sub-zero temperatures and how to hunt—with and without a gun—and how to make soap and chop wood, and how to make Fraser cry out in at least three different languages when they made love.

But that was the first winter. These days, Ray was learning how to fix the shortwave and speak Inuit and track poachers, and how to get along with the townspeople who still had trouble with him and Fraser being together. How to replace a roof and deliver puppies. And babies.

Still, every time a heavy snow came...

"I believe you are woolgathering, Ray." Fraser's voice is soft and warm, just like the blanket he drapes over Ray's shoulders.

"Naw, just thinking," Ray says and hears Fraser laugh softly. He turns away from the window into Fraser's arms. "About that first winter," he whispers, and places a soft kiss on Fraser's cheek.

"Ah," says Fraser.

And kisses him back.


	9. Crossword Puzzles (F/K; Ray V./Stella)

Ray squinted as he tried to read the small type. "A six letter word meaning uncooperative and irritable."

"Stella." Vecchio didn't take his eyes off the warehouse.

Ray laughed. "I warned you. Did I not warn you?" He looked over the back of the seat at Fraser. "Did I not warn him?"

"Yeah, yeah, you warned me, Kowalski. I just figured you were jealous."

"He was jealous," Fraser offered helpfully.

"Yeah, but I was also right."

"Stella's just..." Vecchio hesitated.

"Ornery," Fraser said suddenly.

"Well, I don't know about that, Benny." Vecchio shook his head as he smiled a little. "I mean, Stella's a handful sometimes, sure. She's has her days just like anybody else—"

"—when nothing you do or say is right, and you shouldn't try anyway because she's 'not some kind of wallflower that needs a big strong man to look after her'—hey!" Kowalski rubbed his arm where Vecchio had elbowed him. "Am I right or am I right? Fraser, help me out here."

"Actually, I think you mean hot-house flower, Ray, not wallflower. And while you know I always endeavor to be helpful and have actually met District Attorney Kowalski on several occasions—"

"Like my wedding," Vecchio chimed in.

"—I don't think our relationship is one that could properly be described as intimate—"

Kowalski laughed. "Which of the things in this car is not like the other?"

"—and I would therefore, of course, defer to yours and Ray's collective and more expert opinion. I was simply pointing out that 'ornery' is a six letter word for meaning uncooperative and irritable."

"Yeah? Score." Ray filled in the boxes, then blew air on his fingers to warm them up.

"I did suggest gloves before we left, Ray," Fraser said, and Ray threw him another look over the back of the seat before he squinted at the paper again. "...six, seven—okay I'm looking for an eight letter word for 'a burrowing mammal with a long snout, powerful claws, long tongue, and heavy tail—'"

"Officer Gordon in Records." Vecchio smiled at his own joke.

"—and native to southern Africa."

"Anteater?" Vecchio took his styrofoam cup of coffee off the dashboard and took a sip. He made a face.

"Cold?"

"Like ice. When are Huey and Dewey supposed to get here? I'm freezing my ass off, here."

Ray glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes ago. A-N-T-E...nope. Fourth letter is a 'd'."

"Aardvark. Anteaters are native to Central and South American, and although there is a striking resemblance between their long snouts and tongues, they are actually unrelated." Fraser opened the thermos and peered inside. "Sorry, Ray. It appears we've depleted our supply of coffee."

Lights flashed over the hood of the car and then Huey's nondescript boring-mobile pulled up next to them. Vecchio rolled down the window. "About time."

Huey ignored him. "Anything?"

"Not a peep. Nobody in or out." Vecchio passed the radio receiver over through the window. "Johnston's supposed to be by at ten for look see; Welsh says to give him 'full cooperation.'"

Huey rolled his eyes. "Feds."

Vecchio shrugged. "Feds." There was whole subject he preferred to avoid.

Huey looked over at Dewey and then turned back to look at Vecchio. "Okay, we'll take it from here. See you on the flip side."

"Ten-four, Dano," Ray muttered under his breath but returned Dewey's nod and wave. Vecchio rolled up his window and started the engine. Ray didn't wait for him and turned on the heat himself, cranking it up high. He closed his eyes and slid down in the seat, hunching into his jacket as Vecchio steered the car out of the parking lot. "Home, James."

"You want me to drop you by the Consulate, Benny?" he heard Vecchio ask.

"Fraser's with me," Ray said, without opening his eyes. "You can drop us both at my place." He heard movement from the back seat, and then felt Fraser's hand on his shoulder. He grinned, and covered it with his own.

"Your hands are cold," Fraser said quietly, but there was that something in his voice that Ray knew meant he was getting lucky tonight. Something that Ray knew it would only take a few minutes alone and the right words to coax into flames.

"You can warm 'em up, Fraser," he said, "soon as we get home."


	10. In Bed (F/K/V)

He wakes up slowly to the sound of sheets rustling, and kissing, soft, wet, open-mouthed kissing, and he opens his eyes—just a slit—and yeah, Vecchio's on top of Fraser, between Fraser's legs, and they're kissing. Kissing and whispering to each other, so softly even he can't hear, and Fraser's smiling and Vecchio's smiling and something inside Ray just clenches in the sweetest kind of pain.

He opens his eyes a little more but they still don't see him. He doesn't remember much of the morning except hands and arms and fingers and mouths, on him and around him and inside him, and it's always like that at first, a Kowalski sandwich. They had him on his knees, dicks and tongues in his mouth, his ass, and he can feel it still, the way he'll feel it for days, which is just a-okay fine with him. He's the reason they're here like this; he knows that. Knows that neither of them would have ever imagined this could happen; knows that they only reason they got here was 'cause both of them thought the only thing worse than this was making him make a choice, because both were sure they'd come out on the short end of that deal. Except it hadn't turned out to be the worst; it turned out to be the best. And anyway, they were wrong because he couldn't, couldn't choose. How could he choose, between Vecchio who was there, every fucking day and handling the shit right along side of him, good days and bad guys, dirty dishes and car payments and ex-wives.

Ex-wife.

And Fraser, who was it, the beginning and ending and every good thing in-between, the answer to everything except the everything Vecchio was the answer to. They were two different fucking languages, man, and you didn't stop speaking one just because sometimes you needed the other.

Fraser laughs at something Vecchio's whispering in his ear and Kowalski can see the color rise in his face. And there's a pang, a half-pang, a millimeter of a pang that cuts through him, because Fraser and Vecchio, well, there's something special there, too—Ray knows that. Knows it will always be different from him and Fraser just because Vecchio was the thing Fraser never let himself reach for, never let himself think about, back then when it was just the two of them. Just like Vecchio never let himself think about Fraser, about himself like that.

Until Kowalski. Ray Kowalski, Queerbuster. He'd taken both their cherries.

Still, he would always be on the outside of the thing there was between them now, because it never saw the light of day before he came along, which meant it would always be perfect in their heads, the perfect thing they never had.

"I can hear the wheels turning over here, Kowalski."

They'd noticed him now. Vecchio hadn't moved but Fraser was reaching out a hand to him. "Ray?"

"Nothing." And it was nothing. Nothing like this here, now, right now, in this bed.


	11. Neutral Ground (F/K/V)

In the beginning, neutral ground was important—hotel rooms, big, big beds that the three of them could theoretically lay in together and never have to actually touch. Not that that ever happened. Sure, in the beginning, it was awkward at first. Sometimes Fraser thought there had to be chit chat and everyone was of so careful to be equal with the eye contact.

But that was in the beginning, before they figured out how good it could be. Now, they met in Ray's—both Rays'—apartment when Fraser was in Chicago, and Fraser's cabin when they were in Canada, and the beds were doubles and sometimes they got busy and didn't even remember to change the sheets, but that was okay now, and anyway, they certainly didn't change them after, not for a day or two anyway.

Some things didn't change. Ray still met Fraser at the door, and theirs was always the first kiss, although the time between Fraser kissing Ray, and Fraser kissing Vecchio, had gotten shorter and shorter. And when they got to the bedroom, which was pretty much a straight beeline from the door these days, Ray was first to start pulling at clothes, although these days it was a pretty even chance that he would be stripping Vecchio as stripping Fraser. Not that anyone needed much help these days, either. Fraser still was kinky about the watching part, so he was usually naked last, and Vecchio still worried about his clothes, so Ray was still naked first, but then they were down on the bed and there were hands everywhere, mouths everywhere.

Kowalski still wound up in the middle for the first couple of hours, like he was still some neutral UN territory between Chicago and Canada. Except, yay for negotiations. At first it felt really queer to be the middle ground, to get passed back and forth between Fraser and Vecchio like this, like he was the girl or something, but as time went on there was less passing back and forth, and more what you might call "collaboration between occupying forces," and these days Ray lost track sometimes of who was where and who was doing what to him, unless tongue was involved and then it was probably Fraser.

Except not really that either. He didn't lose track, couldn't lose track. He knew Vecchio's touch sure as his name wasn't Stanley, knew the way Vecchio's hands still shook sometimes when he kissed Ray, and the way Fraser always held too hard, and had to make his fingers let go. 

Afterward, Ray was never sure which was better—getting fucked by Vecchio and Fraser at the same time, or ganging up on Fraser with Vecchio. There was something mind-blowing about being inside Fraser, listening to him groan and feeling him clench up inside every time Vecchio went down on him. Or feeling Fraser's dick slide between his lips with every move of Vecchio's hips, and feeling Fraser's hands in his hair and hearing him whisper "Ray" without being entirely sure which of them he was talking to.

On the other hand—and Ray felt his eyes roll up into his head as Vecchio slid all the way inside him—on the other hand, the other hand, ohhh fuck...

Jeeesus.

On the other hand, there was nothing like this feeling, with Vecchio plastered against his back and holding his hips tightly as Vecchio fucked him, fucked him, fucked him, with Fraser in front of him, making a meal out of his mouth and his nipples while Fraser's hand stroked his dick with a rhythm just different enough from Vecchio's to drive a man crazy. There was nothing like this, nothing...

(It was still weird with Vecchio in the middle. Vecchio still had problems with getting fucked by him and Fraser at the same time. Vecchio still had issues as Fraser would say later when they would find themselves together in the shower while Vecchio was in the kitchen making coffee. Whatever. Vecchio still panicked if more than one guy got too close to his asshole, although there was a night when Ray had gone down on him while Fraser watched, sucking Vecchio's dick until it was hard and his balls were tight, and then Ray used his fingers and his tongue on him until Vecchio was breathing funny and his eyes were deep as midnight, and he whispered "Ray" in a broken voice. Ray had moved out of the way and Fraser had taken Vecchio on his back, his legs over Fraser's shoulders, and Ray had pressed himself up against the two of them and rubbed himself off against Vecchio's thigh...)

"Ray!" And the words were pouring out of his mouth into Fraser's and he was coming all over Fraser's hand while Vecchio's fingers dug deep and held on tight and he could hear Vecchio's voice in his ear, just like that night, "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray..."


	12. It Takes Skill (Ray/Ray)

"It takes skill."

"It takes luck and a thick skull. Thank god you got one out of two covered."

Kowalski dragged down the back of his trunks and flashed Ray a bit of ass, then climbed into the ring. It was a pick up match, some bruiser of a guy with twelve inches and thirty pounds on Kowalski, none of it neck. Ray didn't know why he came along on these adventures. Watching Kowalski get the shit beat out of him wasn't high on his happy list.

Kowalski and the Bruiser touched gloves, then started circling each other. Kowalski was good on his feet but he didn't have anywhere near the reach this guy had. This guy had arms that reached to Milwaukee. Kowalski landed the first punch but not the three that followed, and Ray heard him grunt when the guy's fist hit a rib. Then Kowalski got in close and the guy threw him off, and they circled a bit again. A couple of jabs—Kowalski got up under the guy's arms and landed a good one on his jaw—but then he caught one in the gut and Ray could hear the air whoosh out of him. Kowalski staggered for a minute, then found his footing again and came right back, bam, bam, bam, right and then left and then left again.

And so it went on. Kowalski got in one good punch for every six the other guy did but he kept coming back, like some cocky fucking street dog that won't come in the house but follows you step for step the minute you walk out the door. Skinny ass, skinny legs, pale, except where the rosy patches from the punches were starting to come up, and eyes that didn't give an inch.

Ray sat there and watched. Sat still, legs crossed and his shoes shining as Kowalski danced around the hurt until his hair—fucking stupid hair—was matted to the sides of his face and his eye was bleeding and his t-shirt was drenched, and you could see the tremor in his arms and legs, if you looked close enough. Until finally he could see the tough draining out and the peace settling in, and Kowalski finally stepped back, gloves down, and called time.

"Good fight," he said to Bruiser, who nodded and grunted, and climbed out of the ring to start up on the bag. Kowalski stepped over to the ropes, leaning over to smile at Ray, who tossed him a towel.

"You're bleeding," Ray said, standing up, smoothing the crease in his jacket. His fingers hurt, like maybe he'd had them curled too tight, cutting off the blood. They tingled.

"Yeah." Kowalski touched his fingers to his forehead, dabbed at the cut with the towel. "Makes me look cool."

Ray snorted. "Makes you look like you're bleeding. You coming? Or are we waiting for Mohammad Ali to show up and take turns?"

"I'm coming." Kowalski slid through the ropes. Pulled on his sweats. "You gonna buy me a pizza?" he asked, as they made their way out the door, to Ray's car, parked in the alley. Ray followed him around the car, to the passenger's side.

"Yeah." He leaned close, pressed his lips to the back of Kowalski's neck, still wet with sweat and melting hair gel. "Yeah, I'm gonna buy you a pizza."


	13. Love and Marriage (Ray/Ray)

Vecchio hissed a little as he smoothed the palms of his hands, damp with cologne, over his freshly shaved cheeks. "You better hurry," he said, glancing over at Ray where he was still slumped over the toilet seat, nose buried in his cup of coffee. "Kick-off at ten."

Ray smiled and shook his head, then stopped when the room spun a little. "Vecchio, I think it's probably bad taste to refer to your sister's wedding like it was a football game or something."

"Yeah." Vecchio checked himself out in the mirror and smiled. "More like winning the lottery anyway." He turned to Ray. "C'mon, c'mon—let's get a move on here."

"Sure." Ray closed his and leaned his head back against the wall. "Just a couple more minutes here."

Vecchio's smile was all through his voice. "It was that fourth toast, wasn't it?"

Ray grinned, then winced. He squinted at Vecchio. "There were four toasts? What did we toast after the honor of the Queen?"

"Turnbull's mother. Or sister. One of the Turnbull women anyway. C'mon," Vecchio's hand was on his arm, pulling him up, "let's get you shaved and dressed—"

"Ow—ow, ow, ow—can't I just stay home and look at the pictures later?"

"My sister is getting married, Kowalski. That's one of the down sides of matrimony—you gotta go to all the family weddings."

"We're not married!" Ray complained but he let Vecchio prop him up on the bathroom counter.

"Doesn't matter. We share a closet and you get regular sex. Same rules apply." Vecchio picked up the can of shaving gel and filled his palm. Ray drained his coffee cup while he could.

"Lift up your face," Vecchio said. The gel was cool as it spread across his cheeks a "You ever shave anyone before?" Ray asked, feeling his Adam's apple move under Vecchio's fingers.

"I shave myself every morning, Kowalski, for thirty years now. You think this is something new?" Vecchio ran cold water over his fingers and picked up the razor.

"Different angle, though."

Vecchio put a finger under his chin and lifted it. "Shut up, now."

Ray felt the edge of the blade against his left cheekbone and heard the rasp as Vecchio dragged it across his cheek. He tried to watch out of the corner of his eye but the angle was wrong, and all his could see was the tops of Vecchio's fingers and the razor. When he looked back he saw Vecchio had caught him and was smiling.

"You think I'm gonna cut your throat here or something, Kowalski?"

He grinned again and shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe definitely, you keep talking. Now shut up." Ray felt the razor again, finishing up the left cheek. He closed his eyes as Vecchio moved to on to his right cheek, his throat and his chin. "Do the thing with your lip," Vecchio said finally.

Ray tightened his upper lip, and Vecchio finished him up with a few short strokes. "There, you're done." Vecchio moved out of his way so he could slide off the counter. He turned and leaned over the sink, feeling the pounding in his head increase as he rinsed. He took the towel Vecchio offered, and then the two Tylenol and the glass of water.

"Thanks." He downed the first and followed it with another. "Give me a second and I'll shower."

Vecchio was cleaning up the sink, washing the tiny whiskers down the drain. He rinsed out the washcloth and draped it over the towel rack to dry. "Ray?"

Ray stripped off his t-shirt and turned on the water in the shower. "Yeah?" He adjusted the temperature. "What?"

"Nothing. Never mind." He turned back to see Vecchio getting ready to leave the bathroom.

"What?" He reached out and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "What is it?"

Vecchio shrugged. "Nothing. It's stupid."

Ray stared at him.

"Really. It's nothing. It's just—you know if we could I'd ask, right? I mean, if we could, y'know, and Ma wouldn't have apoplexy."

"Yeah." He grinned. "Yeah, I know."


	14. Tony Hill

Tony has many bad habits. He folds down the corners of the pages on library books. Gets too little sleep. Spends too much on computer games. Forgets to keep office hours. Or to go to faculty parties.

He doesn't have a game face. He knows that, knows that what he's thinking often shows between the lines of his unremarkable face. He works with broken people and he knows they see the damage, and his own, in his eyes. The sympathy.

The recognition.

Still, he gets captivated by the shattered pieces and forgets to hide the reflection. He is...seduced.

He stays detached.

He makes people nervous.

He gets impatient. It's all so bloody obvious sometimes and yet he has to plod, lead them by the hand, step by step, show them what they already have, what they already know, if they could just see beyond what they think they do. If they could just see.

If they would just listen.

He talks to himself.

He talks to patients, to the police, to victims. He gets inside their heads and they get inside his, and it comes out his mouth in steady streams of conscious and unconscious thought. Questions, answers, evidence, motive.

Nonsense.

He lives in chaos.

He's messy. Disorganized. He loses keys, messages, his temper, but he finds the almost lost, and the hidden, in other people. Sometimes he loses them anyway. Sometimes he feels himself slipping away.

He is obsessed.

Life and death. Love and hate. Blood and sex and compulsion. Insanity. Grief. Need. Good and evil, and the thin line between. He knows his own dark side, knows it and sees it, without looking away. Sometimes he embraces it, holds it close, deep inside himself. Feels the hunger.

And wonders what would happen if he let it slip the leash.


	15. Greenwich (Betty/Giselle)

Something wakes her, some small sound that's gone before she's fully awake. A cry maybe. Or a laugh. Whatever it is it's gone now, lost in the other sounds coming through the thin walls, people making their way up the stairs, arguing about something. Traffic on the street, which is never silent, not in New York.

She'd grown used to silence in Salerno, life dictated by the sun and the tides, and light so brilliant it turned everything to gold. New York in January is like waking from a dream, cold, wet with dirty snow. Only twelve hours off the boat, she's out of step. She's not yet plugged into the current of the Village, the pop and sizzle of a jazz beat, the tide of voices rising and falling in debate, lit by candles flickering in cold-water apartments.

Katherine rolls over and looks at the clock. Five a.m. Not so early as she thought. Not too early to make coffee, if she's quiet. They'd given her Betty's room so she could sleep but even two weeks crossing the Atlantic hadn't completely acclimated her. She'll probably come crashing down again in the early evening, like last night, falling asleep in her wine and the spaghetti. She pulls on her robe. She can't find the belt and ties a scarf around her waist instead.

In the hallway, she pauses, getting her bearings. It's a small apartment, like all the other small apartments in this building, on this street. The first door is bolted, another apartment on the other side, where she can hear someone softly singing. Second door is Giselle's room, where she and Betty are sleeping. Katherine puts her hand on the wall, feeling her way, and starts when the door gives gently under the pressure of her searching hand. There is a quiet sigh, like the turning of hinges that are too tight, and then she realizes that the sound didn't come from the door, it comes from inside the room, where it ends in a quiet laugh. There is the rustle of sheets, and Katherine almost thinks to knock, to let them know she is awake, too, and will make coffee, when suddenly there is the sound of someone catching their breath, almost like a sob, and another sound, one that sends shivers up her spine, though she's not sure why.

She steps back. A floorboard creaks under her foot and she freezes, holding her own breath.

"What was that?" It's Betty's voice, sharp like she remembers.

"Nothing." Giselle, laughing. "It's nothing. Old building."

More silence. She cannot breathe.

"It's nothing." Rustle of sheets. "C'mon."

More sounds. Soft wet sounds. Kissing.

"Oh, god." Betty.

She breathes again, slow shallow breaths that don't make a sound. There is a pale slice of light coming through the window from the streetlamp outside, cutting across the bed. Giselle is spread over the sheets like paint over canvas, black hair and shining eyes, full lips blurred by the pressure of someone else's mouth. Breasts full, heavy, rosy and flushed with heat and attention. As Katherine watches she lifts an arm, wraps fingers around the bedpost and holds on. Her voice is soft. Rough. Hot. "Harder. I want your fingers."

Katherine feels the words slide into her, under her skin. There are more sounds from inside the room, movement and whispers, the murmur of skin on skin. Her feet are cold against the bare floor.

Betty comes into view, rising up over Giselle now, tucking her hips snugly into Giselle's body. Giselle's heels dig into the backs of Betty thighs as she starts to move and she is motion, like the rise and fall of the sea, muscles flexing in her legs, her thighs, clenching underneath the smooth skin of her ass, tightening in her back. One hand clutches at the sheets, holding a precarious balance as she buries the other between their bodies. Giselle arches and starts to cry out but Betty kisses her, cutting off the sound and the beat of Katherine's heart, and there is only the muffled sound of their breathing, the creak of the bed.

Katherine realizes she is trembling. Giselle is growing frantic. Her heels slide in the layers of slick sweat covering Betty and she lets them fall to each side and struggles to find purchase on the mattress, where the thin sheets just slide under her feet. She twists her head, gasping for breath, and settles for twining her legs tight around Betty's, like a braid, leg and leg and leg. Her brightly colored nails stand out against her white knuckles as she grips Betty shoulder, and Betty leans forward, letting her hair cover them both as she buries her face in Giselle, as Giselle shudders, eyes screwed tight and one hand still clinging desperately to the bedstead.


	16. Lipstick (Frannie/Jack Huey)

Huey was drunk. Well, okay, maybe they both were drunk--Frannie was having more trouble than usual with the clasp on her clutch...

She giggled. 

Huey looked over at her and smiled. "What?"

"Clasp on my clutch. Say that three time fast."

"Clasp on your crutch." He cleared his throat. "Collapse on your clutch. _Clap_ on your crutch--ah, hell." He smiled again, then went back to trying to fit his key in the ignition.

He had a nice smile, Frannie thought. She located her tube of lipstick and flipped open her compact. "It's too dark in here. Can't you turn on a light?"

"Hmmm?"

"Hey." She watched him examine the key he was using, then pick another. "Hey." She poked him in the arm. 

"What?"

"Maybe you shouldn't be driving. You're kinda drunk, Huey."

"Yeah?" That smile again. It was okay, really. Kinda sweet. 

Frannie smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I think maybe you are." She lifted the mirror again, tried to see. "I'm gonna make a mess of this."

"Naw, you're good at that stuff."

"Yeah?" She looked over at him. "You think so?"

"Yeah." He'd stopped trying to start the car.

"It is an art, y'know." People never took this stuff seriously. "I mean, I wasn't as good at it when I started as I am now. Y'know, there's stuff you have to figure out, colors and stuff. What season you are."

"Season?"

"Yeah. Your season tells you your colors. Summer, Winter, Spring."

"And Autumn?"

"Yeah. And Autumn." Her hand shook and the lipstick smeared. She reached in her purse for a tissue. "Damn."

"Here. Let me." And Huey stretched out his hand and took the tube out of her fingers.

"What?"

"I'll do it." He looked carefully at the tube and adjusted the height of the lipstick. "Lean forward."

And really, she should have just taken the lipstick back and said "No way, Jose," in the strongest possible way, but--

But he really did have a nice smile.

She leaned forward and puckered her lips. Huey moved closer, across the seat. He was looking really closely at her mouth and she closed her eyes. Felt the soft creamy touch of the lipstick across her top lip. Bottom lip. Back and forth...

Huey cleared his throat. "There. Okay."

She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. Okay, it was sorta in the lines. And who gave a shit about lines anyway.

"You really shouldn't drive," she said, closing up the tube and putting it back in her purse. "Fraser would have to make a citizen's arrest and y'know how that drives my brother crazy, because he still winds up with the paperwork. Maybe we should just go get some coffee."

"Yeah?" Huey laughed. 

A really, really nice smile. 

"Yeah," she said. "My treat."


	17. Packing (F/K/V)

"You have _rules_ for _packing_?"

Ray sighed and counted to ten. He would not kill Kowalski. He would not. That would stain the carpet. And cost them their deposit.

Okay, and it would probably bother Fraser, too.

" _I_ don't have rules for packing, Kowalski. There just _are_ rules for packing. Heavy stuff on the bottom, light stuff on top. You don't pack books on top of china and you don't _throw six hundred dollar Armani suits in a box_ like you were packing 'em up for the Goodwill. 

"Of course," Ray waved his hand in Kowalski's direction. The gesture managed to take in the threadbare Ramones t-shirt with the ripped-off sleeves, the ancient khaki-colored canvas pants that were riding so low on Kowalski's hips he see things nice Italian boys weren't meant to be looking at, and the battered sneakers, with the handy toe ventilators. "I can see where you might be confused, given your personal experience."

Kowalski's eyes narrowed. He looked—okay, Ray had to admit he looked good. They'd been up since five, packing like crazy, because they had to vacate the apartment by noon, and both of them were hot in the sticky heat (they'd moved the air conditioners to the new place yesterday). Humidity had flattened Kowalski's hair but there was a sheen on all his exposed surfaces—face and arms and—belly.

_Busted._

"You gotta problem with the way I pack, Vecchio?" Kowalski was smiling now, moving closer, easy and slow. 

Ray backed up a step-- _packing, deposits, late fees_ —but shit, there was bed, right up against the back of his knees. "Fraser's gonna be here any minute now—" 

"Yeah?" Kowalski shoved suddenly and Ray was on his back, with Kowalski climbing on top. "He can get in line."

"That's not entirely within the spirit of our relationship, Ray." Ray looked over Kowalski's shoulder to see Fraser standing in the doorway. 

Kowalski didn't even twitch, just tucked his face into Ray's neck and dragged his tongue along the pulse beating there. "He doesn't like the way I pack, Fraser," Kowalski said when his mouth was free. "We're just—discussing our differences."

"Ah. I see." Ray couldn't see Fraser anymore but he could hear him getting closer. "Is there anything I can do to help—facilitate a reconciliation?"

Kowalski's hands were between his legs, working his cock through his pants. Ray bit his lip to keep from moaning.

"Well, he seems worried about his clothes. I thought I'd try to," Kowalski's fingers traced Ray's zipper, "get 'em off his—mind." Kowalski kissed him then, greedy lips and tongue, and Ray wrapped his arms around his shoulders, giving in. He felt the mattress dip as Fraser slid onto the bed behind him, already missing his own shirt, and Fraser's hands went to work on getting Ray's shirt out of his pants. Kowalski growled when Fraser pulled Ray back long enough to pull his shirt off and dived back into the kiss as soon as it was over Ray's head. 

They shifted up along the bed, all of them—although with a little difficulty and a couple of near misses with elbows and eyes—and Ray wound up on his back, Kowalski still feeding greedily at his mouth and Fraser with his lips wrapped tightly around his cock. Kowalski grabbed Ray's hand and shoved it down the front of his pants, and moaned into Ray's mouth as Ray started to stroke him, finding Kowalski already hard and wet.

Fraser's mouth was driving him crazy. Fraser had slid his hands up underneath Ray's ass, encouraging him to move and Ray could feel his cock sliding against the roof of Fraser's mouth, then fitting snugly into the back of Fraser's throat. Fraser would swallow, driving Ray out of his mind, and then released Ray's cock, to start all over again.

Ray tore his mouth away from Kowalski's. "Jesus, Benny—"

"Finish him, Frase." Kowalski stared down at Ray with hot eyes, wetting his lips with his tongue. Ray groaned again as Fraser took him deep and held him, swallowed again and again, and then Ray was gone, history, mind blank, as he came.

After that, he was dimly aware of Kowalski reaching down and dragging Fraser up into a kiss, that they had their hands on each other and that the bed continued to rock with a steady rhythm. He rolled onto his side and watched Kowalski take Fraser in his mouth and blow him, and Fraser jerk and moan and almost come off the bed as he came. Then Kowalski straddled Fraser's hips and jerked himself off, collapsing on top of Fraser when he was done.

Fraser turned Kowalski's face up into a kiss, and then Kowalski looked back at Ray as he reached out a hand to him.

"So you think we got this rule thing straightened out here, Vecchio?" Kowalski asked, hair plastered to his forehead and grinning from ear to ear. Fraser was panting beneath him, his face almost as red as Kowalski's, and his chest sticky with jism.

Ray grinned at both of them. He shifted closer, breathing in deep the smell of both of them, all of them. Together. "Rules are for the other guys," he said. "And Armani suits," he quickly amended. Then he kissed their deposit goodbye.


	18. Summer in the City (F/K)

Hot town, summer in the city, Chicago downtown that was dirty and gritty.

Ray guided the GTO in and out of traffic, trying to find a place for the car. Apparently the park was the place to be this afternoon, everyone searching for that cool breeze the weather guy kept promising. Ray'd circled the block three or four times already and it was starting to look—aha! Toyota exiting at one o'clock. Ray pulled over to the side and put on his signal, staking his claim, and when the other car was gone he eased the GTO into the space.

Climbing out, he took a quick look around and then started into the park. Frannie said Fraser said to meet him at the fountain—but Fraser called over an hour ago so there was no way of knowing whether he was still there. Or what this was about. He sort of hoped Fraser hadn't gotten himself involved in anything crazy—third day in a row topping one hundred and ten, and what Ray really wanted was a dim bar and air conditioning on high, and a nice, cold bottle of beer.

Or no—what he _really_ wanted— But Ray didn't let himself think about that stuff anymore. He told himself if it was gonna happen, it would have happened by now. On the frigate maybe, after they'd figured a way back from being so close to hating each other. Or on the quest, when there'd been all that time, all those miles, all that quiet, and nothing but each other.

But it never happened. They never found the reaching out hand or anything else, and when Ray's leave and assorted excuses ran out, they'd come back to Chicago. Ray went back to his old place and Fraser found a one-bedroom in Wicker Park. Fraser returned to the Consulate with a promotion and a raise, and didn't have to pick up dry cleaning anymore. And Ray went back to the 27th with a new partner, young and fresh, right out of the academy. They got along well enough—she didn't mind Fraser tagging along—and life settled into something like it used to be, as long as Ray didn't spend too much time thinking about might-have-beens.

He was getting close to the fountain. The walkways were littered with concession carts, ice cream and hot dogs and snow cones, lines of people seeking relief, and Ray thought about stopping, but then he saw the bright red that meant only Mountie serge and Fraser to him, and he took off in that direction at a trot.

As he got closer he realized something was off. The serge wasn't on Fraser—it was draped over the back of one of the carved granite fish that decorated the edge of the fountain every four or five feet or so. And just below—Fraser's boots, carefully lined up.

And Fraser—Fraser was perched on the edge of the fountain, his pants rolled up to the knee and his feet in the water. His braces were still over his shoulders and he was getting sunburned on his back and shoulders. He was eating something, and as Ray got closer he realized it was a snow cone. Dief sat next to him, obviously just out of the water, and he looked up and wagged his tail as Ray drew near.

"Frase?"

Fraser's back straightened, and there was a beat before he turned. Fraser—bracing himself—?

"Ray." Fraser began to stand. "Ray, I'm sorry, I—"

"No, no, stay," Ray said, coming close, putting his hand on Fraser's hot shoulder and pushing him back down. "Sit."

Fraser sat again, and returned his gaze to the pulsing jets of the fountain. Ray sat next to him, facing in the opposite direction, looking out into the sunny park and the crowds of people milling about on a hot afternoon. Fraser offered the snow cone silently and Ray sucked out a mouthful—cherry. They passed it back and forth.

"So what's this about, Fraser?" Ray finally asked, when Fraser remained silent, seemingly content to continue defaming the uniform and sucking down empty calories in the middle of the day. "Barefoot in the park isn't really your style, y'know, although you do bring a certain something—"

"Ray—" Deep breath from Fraser. "Ray, what would you do if I ask you to abandon your job, your career and your family, your country and your citizenship, and quite likely the good opinion of those closest to you—" Fraser stopped again.

Oh, Christ. Was he talking about himself? Or was he talking about-- _Oh, Lordy fucking hallelujah._ Ray's hands trembled. "I guess it would depend on why, Fraser. On your reasons for asking me." 

"And for so little, really." Fraser's voice was quiet. "There's so little for you in exchange. Harsh weather and an uncertain future—" And finally Fraser looked at him. "And me, for whatever that may be worth to you, Ray. My life. My regard, for as long I—"

"Sold."

"What?"

"Sold. Done." He could feel the grin splitting his face. "Deal. Where do I sign?"

Fraser frowned. "Ray, perhaps you should think about this. It's a big decision."

"Fraser, perhaps you should shut up, say 'Ray, I'm so glad you said yes,' and kiss me."

Fraser smiled. It was brilliant. "If I shut up, how can I say any—"

So Ray kissed him instead. He tasted like cherries and snow.


	19. Hearts and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kowalski and Vecchio are packing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is different from the one where Kowalski, Vecchio, and Fraser are packing.

Ray passed Kowalski on the stairs, going up on his toes and sucking in his gut as Kowalski charged past him with two boxes, the one on top bearing the label of a popular imported beer and the word "KITCHEN" in big, block letters. Underneath that was a big red heart.

Frannie had helped Kowalski pack.  
  
"I didn't think you even had kitchen stuff," he said, and Kowalski tossed a grin over his shoulder, his face red from the heat, his hair damp and limp from sweat.  
  
"There's still three more boxes in the car," he said, disappearing around the corner and starting up the next flight. Vecchio continued down the stairs and outside. The last three boxes were the biggest and heaviest; he picked up one and wondered what the hell Kowalski owned that could weigh so much. He was gonna throw out his back before the day was over—Kowalski was playing fast and loose with his housewarming nookie.  
  
The box was marked "MISC"—no hearts this time but Frannie had drawn a big daisy with a smiley face in the middle—so he yelled out as soon as he got through the door, "hey, Kowalski, where do you want this?" He didn't get an answer, so he dropped the box where he stood (flinching guiltily when something rattled inside) and went looking for him. Ray found him in the kitchen, leaning up against the refrigerator with his head tipped back, pouring a bottle of water down his throat. The condensation on the bottle dripped down onto his t-shirt, damp with sweat under his arms and along his flanks, and there was a small drizzle of water from the corner of his mouth as the bottle emptied just a bit faster than Kowalski could swallow. From where Ray was standing, he could see the perspiration glimmering on his arms, his shoulders, and his neck, where his adam's apple bobbed gently as he drank.  
  
Kowalski finished the water with a gasp and tossed the bottle over toward the empty box they were using as trash can. He rubbed his arm across his mouth and his forehead, smearing the dust and the sweat, and tilted his head as he looked at Ray, grinning again. "What?"  
  
"Nothing," Ray said, drawn forward like a moth to a flame. "Nothing." He pressed Kowalski back up against the refrigerator and took his mouth, cool and sweet and clean from the water. Kowalski made a soft noise deep in his throat, and ran his thumb over the short hairs at the back of Vecchio's neck, sucking on his tongue until Ray finally pulled away.  
  
"C'mon," he said, his voice coming out rough and low, "we still need to go get my stuff."


End file.
